


A palace beyond this world of wrongdoing and rightdoing

by Taj_al_Moulouk



Category: Hannibal (2001), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Belts, Cannibalism, Developing Relationship, Dom Hannibal, Dom/sub, Domestic, Dominant Hannibal Lecter, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Light BDSM, M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal, Story within a Story, Sub Will Graham, Submissive Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taj_al_Moulouk/pseuds/Taj_al_Moulouk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,<br/>there is a field. I will meet you there.<br/>When the soul lies down in that grass,<br/>the world is too full to talk about<br/>language, ideas, even the phrase each other<br/>doesn't make any sense."<br/>-- Jalaldine Rumi</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s lips twitched as William hissed, burgundy blood dotting on white where the hook pierced his skin. Covering the dough with a cotton square, he patted his hands on his apron as he approached his husband in long, purposeful strides...</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me.”<br/> </p><p>“What shall I tell you, my good Will?</p><p> </p><p>“Our fairytale.”<br/> </p><p>Hannibal reached over and grabbed the bottle to fill their glasses; William’s body followed his movements.</p><p> </p><p>“Once upon a time…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once upon a time.

 

Hannibal’s gaze settled on his William even as he kneaded the dough for that night’s dinner. His husband was seated on the opposite counter, dangling his feet playfully while he threaded a fishing lure. He distractedly asked Hannibal if he was using his family’s secret century-old sourdough recipe, and the older man nodded, raising an eyebrow at his husband’s grateful smile and pleased moan. Hannibal recalled the evening, many years earlier, when William had rudely rolled his eyes upon finding out his then colleague used King Arthur organic flour, Evian water, and Cornish sea salt to bake his daily loaves of bread.

 

“What’you thinking about?”

 

“La première fois que je t’ai invité chez moi.”1

 

“I was really impressed with that meal you cooked for me that first time.”

 

“Menteur,” Hannibal threw at him as he suppressed a smirk. 2

 

“What? I was! Maybe not grateful, baby, but definitely impressed.”

 

Hannibal noticed William’s attention fixed on his flexed arms as he put pressure on the dough. He cleared his throat to catch William’s eye and winked. The younger man’s cheeks flushed and he quickly closed his eyes.

 

“It’s been so long since that first time. How long, baby, five years?”

 

“Six ans.” 3

 

“Six? That is a long time. We’ve come far, eh?” 

 

“Je me rappelle de chaque détail de cette soirée, de toutes les soirées avec toi.” 4

 

Hannibal’s lips twitched as William hissed, burgundy blood dotting on white where the hook pierced his skin. Covering the dough with a cotton square, he patted his hands on his apron as he approached his husband in long, purposeful strides. He grasped the younger man’s hand and bent over, his eyes never leaving William’s. When his wet mouth covered the injured finger, Hannibal heard his husband inhale sharply before pursing his lips to stop the whimper from escaping. 

Hannibal straightened himself and licked his lips as his forehead touched William’s, and he whispered roughly,

 

“Ça va?” 5

 

“Oui, ça va. Are you going to speak in French all night?” 6

 

“When in Paris…”

 

“I do love it here. Want to have a glass of wine while the dough rises? Always wanted to visit, but never thought I’d live in France someday.”

 

“I know, I remember. And yes, kindly stand up and get two glasses while I fetch the bottle of Scion and a bandage for your finger.”

 

Hannibal fixed William with a disapproving look as he tried to reach behind himself for the glasses without standing up.

 

“Isn’t that the port that costs more than $3,000? Are you crazy?”

 

“Yes it is, and yes I am. Stand up, please.”

 

Hannibal smiled as the younger man did as he was told and rushed over to the balcony. The doctor placed the bottle of port on the ground and wiped his husband’s finger with antiseptic before placing a bandage on the cut.

 

“Once a doctor…” William mumbled but crawled between the older man’s legs when he made himself comfortable on the ground. With his back to his husband’s chest, William dangled his feet through the balcony’s rails and looked over Paris.

 

“Who are we eating tonight?”

 

“A rapist.”

 

“I don’t wanna eat a rapist, that's disgusting.”   


 

 “Think of the women he will no longer be able to rape once he completely disappears within us .”

 

“What do you remember,” he asked as Hannibal passed him a glass of port. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“In the kitchen, I told you I always wan’ed to visit France and you said you remembered…what exactly?”

 

“That night in my home, you mentioned you always wanted to see Paris.”   


 

 “What night?”

 

“The first time I cooked for you.”

 

“When I told you I didn’t find you that interesting?”

 

Hannibal tightened his free arm around his William as he sipped his port before humming out,

 

“That very night."

 

“It’s been five years and you still remember?"

 

“It’s been six years, and, yes, I remember every moment.”

 

“Our own little fairytale.”

 

“It has hardly been a fairytale.”

 

“You see me as your Patroculus. You would have us be a Greek tragedy?”

 

“And you see me as your Prince Charming.”

 

Hannibal’s comment was met with a snort,

 

“Hardly.”

 

“What am I to you, then?”   


 

 “The big bad wolf.”

 

“Oh? And that would make you the little Red Riding Hood?”

 

Hannibal tightened his arm around William when the younger man squeezed his thigh in protest.

 

“I never said that!”

 

“It is easy to jump to conclusions; red is such a lovely color on you.”

 

“I hardly ever wear it.”

 

He felt Hannibal's sharp grin on the back of his neck.

 

“To my great chagrin. And that is not what I meant. I was referring to the scarlet marks my belt leaves on your skin.”

 

Hannibal heard the telling sigh of William’s building arousal and chuckled when his husband squirmed as he felt himself stiffen. The doctor relaxed as the breeze cooled his heated skin, and he sipped his port in silence until he heard a croak,

 

“Tell me.”

 

“What shall I tell you, my good Will?

 

“Our fairytale.”

 

Hannibal reached over and grabbed the bottle to fill their glasses; William’s body followed his movements.

 

“Once upon a time…”

 

***

1 “La première fois que je t’ai invité chez moi.”  
The first time I invited you to my home.

2 “Menteur,”  
Liar 

3 “Six ans.”  
Six years.

4 “Je me rappelle de chaque détail de cette soirée, de toutes les soirées avec toi.”  
I remember each detail of that night, of every night spent with you.

5 “Ça va?”  
Are you alright?

6 “Oui, ça va”  
Yes, I’m alright.  
 


	2. Hello, Dr. Lecter.

 

While admiring the historic single-family house with sepia bricks, the tall windows and the imposing, maroon roof, Will Graham allowed himself a rare indulgence: turning his emphatic powers on himself.

 

Will did not consider himself an unusually unhappy or particularly discourteous man. He enjoyed the occasional, discreet outing with friends; he even attended the rare, crowded celebration. After all, he had shown up, teeth bared to simulate a smile, at Beverly Katz’ doorstep not one week ago to wish her a happy birthday. More importantly, he had not run the other way when Zeller pulled the door open and greeted him with a,

 

“Well I’ll be damned. I owe Price a twenty. Never thought you’d show up to Bev’s party.”

 

“Who’s at the door,” Beverly’s voice rang through and before anyone could answer, she squeezed passed Zeller and squealed at Will, who tightened his hold on the clumsily-wrapped russet box he had brought with him. He almost pulled it away from Beverly when she grasped at it, reluctant to let go of the only thing of comfort in the overly-crowded apartment into which he was shooed. Before Will could feel the already frayed wires of his sanity buzz, a small hand took a hold of his right elbow and he lowered his gaze to the sparkling eyes of Dr Alana Bloom.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he tried, his teeth bared once more. His smile was apparently subpar.

 

“You forgot there was a party, didn’t you,” his friend admonished as she pecked him on the cheek.

 

“I wasn’t told—”

 

“Beverly told us in the lunch room at Quantaco two weeks ago.”

 

“Completely slipped my mind. Two weeks ago?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The Minnesota Shrike had just struck again, I wasn’t getting much sleep…Hey don’t do that!”

 

“I’m not doing anyth—“

 

“You’re looking at me with pity and worry like some fragile — some teacup, as that prick of yours put it.”

 

“I can't help it, and Hannibal is not a prick. He’s a kind man and —”

 

“He’s a pompous, pretentious prick —“

 

“…and my mentor!”

 

“He’s an assh—”

 

“He’s in the living room.”

 

“Oh, hell no! I’m getting out of here.”

 

Before Will made a run for it, the birthday girl clapped Will over the back and thanked him for the vintage ukulele.

 

“How did you know I played when I was a kid?”

 

“Sometimes my curse turns into a gift,” Will pretended to whisper as he narrowed his eyes at his friend.

 

“Thank you, Will.”

 

“It’s no big deal, just a gift. This is what normal people do at birthdays, right?”

 

“I meant thank you for coming, it means a lot to me..Hey, Zeller, leave the records alone! Sorry, Will, gotta take care of that.”

 

As Beverly rushed away, ukulele slung over her shoulder precariously, Will noticed Alana’s waggling eyebrows and released a put-upon sigh.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re not leaving now,” she declared triumphantly.

 

“I’m not?”

 

“You would never break Bev's heart. Come on, there’s whiskey and good seats in the living room.”

 

Not to mention a pretentious prick, Will thought uncharitably as Alana pulled him out of the foyer and into a dimly-lit, relatively people-free room.

 

And as promised, the prick was sat on the couch, ankle crossed over his knee, sipping at what Will hoped to God was good whiskey.

 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter spotted the pair, smiled as they approached and stood in all his glory to greet them with a kind smile. Dressed in a pair of dark grey slacks and a white shirt with a couple of buttons undone, Lecter looked as casual as Will had ever seen him. A sharp contrast to their first meeting in Jack’s office, a few weeks ago.

 

“Hannibal, you remember Will.”

 

“Of course. Good evening, William. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

 

“Dr. Lecter.”

 

“Ah. I take it from your icy tone you still haven’t forgiven me for my little misstep in Uncle Jack’s office. Please, have a seat and let us figure out how I can make up for it.”

 

“Hey ‘Lana! Will you come out here, please!”

 

Will could have sworn he saw Alana roll her eyes at Beverly’s request, clearly not wanting to miss refereeing the impending show.

 

“Will you two excuse me, I have to go to the birthday girl?”

 

Dr. Lecter smiled kindly,

 

“Well, that is only fair. She is after all the birthday girl. Please, go on; William and I will occupy ourselves in your absence.”

 

“You almost look happy to see me go, Doctor,” Alana winked at him and Will knew he was imagining the spots of pink that briefly tainted the doctor’s sharp cheekbones.

 

The older man took a seat on the couch and Will reluctantly slumped down on an armchair across from him.

 

“Well then, this is my opportunity to apologize in person, having failed to do so through other means since you refused to take my calls or answer my card. I’m relieved you didn’t dodge out of this party when you saw me as you had in the halls of the academy last week.”

 

Will's growing frustration eased slightly and he bit his lip to suppress a smile after he noticed Doctor Lecter’s jaw tighten slightly at his discourteous eye-roll. The man clearly abhorred rudeness, although he seemed to indulge Will for his many transgressions.

 

“I apologize for my behaviour, William. It was wrong of me to taunt you so blatantly. It is of little justification, but your mind being as beautiful in its complexities, I could not restrain myself from probing.”

 

Dr. Lecter paused as Will’s thoughts wandered off to the recent meeting and the bitter words he bit out — _don’t psychoanalyze me, you won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed_ . His attention returned to his companion when the latter cleared his throat.

 

“I am, however, a disciplined man. And the incident from Jack’s office will never happen again.”

 

Will observed the man in front of him with amusement and envy. Outside of his designer suits and away from FBI offices, his face seemed gentler, his feelings and words more genuine. He even, ridiculously, fit in — at the party, on Beverly’s burgundy couch, in the real world. Will could only dream of possessing such easy grace. The doctor said his name softly and Will’s gaze settled on his nose, predicting that he would be expected to give a reply.

 

“Water under the bridge, Dr. Lecter. No reason to concern yourself.”

 

“Do you truly mean that?”

 

Will nodded.

 

“Splendid. And, please, to you, it’s ‘Hannibal’.”

 

“Then there’s no need to torture me with all those ‘Williams’.”

 

“I’m afraid I must.”

 

The rest of the night was less painful than he expected upon his arrival to the party, and Will found that he quite enjoyed speaking to Dr. Lecter. He was even a little disappointed once a slightly inebriated Alana returned to the couch a couple of hours later, although he would never admit it. Hannibal was in the middle of explaining to Will the mechanics behind a new psychic driving technique he was developing involving the use of a combination of light and audio therapy and various drugs, when the shrill ring of his cellphone sounded between them.

 

“Excuse me, William. That would be my emergency phone; I must take it.”

 

Will distractedly listened to bits of the one-sided phone call as he eyed Alana and Zeller using Beverly’s barware to poorly imitate Tom Cruise.

 

“Hello? Franklyn, I do not recall giving you this number…Is everything alright? What sort of pain…Chest pains? And you’re alone? Ah. Yes, I will.”

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave. One of my patients is ill,” Hannibal paused, eyes narrowing, and tsk’ed, “And just when you and I were starting to approach the notion of getting along.”

 

“I heard you mention chest pains. I thought you were a therapist.”

 

“And a semi-retired cardiothoracic surgeon. I’m afraid this particular patient has been checking my curriculum vitae.”

 

“You’re his therapist. Shouldn’t he be calling 911 and going to a hospital.

 

“He has and he will. I will meet him there. I’m a doctor and can’t even entertain the thought of allowing someone to die on my watch.”

 

Will was intrigued by the doctor’s smug grin, but his thoughts were interrupted by a rushed,

 

“I must leave now, William.”

 

Will felt a sharp lump in his throat and nodded,

 

“Of course. Good luck.”

 

“I would love to continue our conversation at another time. I am someone who enjoys cooking meals as a pastime. Would you be available for supper a week from today?”

 

“That’s not necessary.”

 

“Certainly not necessary, but rather desired. I would be pleased if you could make it.”

 

“I don’t usually have supper.”

 

“Then we shall rectify that. Shall we meet at my home at 7? I've jotted down the address on my card.”

 

Will nodded, tense, and accepted the doctor's business card.

 

“I will see you then, Good Will.”

 

The older man rushed over to take his leave from the not very sober hostess, before disappearing from Will’s sight.

 

The lump in Wills throat only throbbed thicker.

 

***

 

A light breeze chilled Will’s skin and woke him from his reverie. A quick glance at his watch told him it was five past seven and he berated himself for losing his thoughts to recent memories. Holding the dessert wine he had brought in one hand, he rang the doorbell.

 

The door was pulled open almost immediately, and the doctor faced his guest triumphantly, surrounded by a halo of ethereal sounds. _E pensando di lei_. Will’s incredulous gaze was met with any icy expression and his jugular throbbed as it often did before a storm. _Mi sopragiunse uno soave sonno_. Were he not lost in the throes of discomfort and anxiety, the younger man would have been dazzled by his host’s appearance — the three-piece, dark taupe plaid suit, the indigo dress shirt, and the bluish violet paisley tie. Will took in the doctor’s slicked back hair and suddenly wanted to pull at his own disheveled curls. _Vide cor tuum_.

 

The other man’s even voice put an end to the self-deprecating thoughts.

 

 _E d'esto core ardendo_.

 

“Hello, Will.”

 

 _Cor tuum_.

 

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

 

 _Cor tuum_.

 

Hannibal’s micro-smile split into a grin.

 


	3. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into how Hannibal and Will really met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parts of Fromage used here belong to Bryan Fuller.

Chapter 3: No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.

 

Will grimaced and narrowed his eyes at the fluorescent lights as he stomped through the busy FBI hallways. He was not happy with Jack Crawford and hoped they would be meeting alone so that he could give him a piece of his mind. Initially, when a gangly young man he could only assume was Jack’s intern brusquely walked up to him in the middle of a lecture, Will was worried. Perhaps Jack had taken ill, or something serious was wrong. After whispering a few questions to the oddly terrified young man, Will realized that this was about yet another case. He apologized to his students as he rushed out and said he would get back to them with a date for a make-up session, and he told the intern to get lost. Despite what Jack clearly seemed to think, Will did not need an escort.

 

And so, without doing the older agent the courtesy of knocking on the door, Will barged into Conference Room C with a harsh,

 

“We need to talk about boundaries!”

 

The powerful speech he had practiced on his way suddenly left Will hanging as he was stared at by three men. One of them was sitting up rigidly and proudly, as if he owned the room and the world around it. And the other, a far less attractive and threatening creature, was sniffling indelicately and looking at the first stranger with lovesick eyes. Will ran his hand through his hair and looked to the one person he he knew in the room, missing the taller man’s look of amusement.

 

“Jack?”

 

“Will, I’m sorry to pull you out of class. This is Dr Hannibal Lecter, a psychiatrist, and his patient, Mr Franklyn Froideveaux.”

 

Will nodded but didn’t offer to shake any hands. The tall man, Dr Lecter, pouted disapprovingly for a split second before he secured his mask of impassivity. Will snorted; he was not impressed. When Dr Lecter narrowed his eyes at Will, the young man felt a pang of remembrance. He searched and searched but fell through nothingness.

 

“And?”

 

“Dr Lecter tells me that Mr Froideveaux might have some information on one of our cases.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The string-master.”

 

Ah, the skilled musician trying a new instrument. Will’s mind quickly supplied him with the necessary information as he sat down on the nearest chair, across from the two strangers and two seats away from Jack. The victim was Douglas Wilson, a trombone player and member of the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra's brass section. He had been killed shortly after his last performance by a blunt force trauma to the back of the head, and his killer had displayed him on stage. Will pinched the bridge of his nose, not happy to have to revisit this particular case. He did not like to be reminded of his failures, rare as they may be. He gestured for Mr Froideveaux to go on.

 

The short man blew his nose again before blubbering intelligibly and Will noticed Dr Lecter’s jaw set tightly. The therapist’s glaring seemed to advise his patient to speak up.

 

“It’s just that….I - I hate being this neurotic.”

 

Will braced himself. He realized that he had yet to hear the doctor’s voice. Would it be deep and silky? Powerful like his demeanor? A Northeast accent, surely…

 

“If you weren't neurotic, Franklyn, you would be something much worse. Please, go on. I’m sure Agents Crawford and Graham have busy schedules.”

 

Will nearly snorted again. You don’t say!

But the rich, tricky voice...Will knew it, could feel it in his bones. A one-night stand during an out of town case? He looked the doctor up and down. No, the man was way over his league.

 

“My friend Tobias, I think he’s killing people.”

 

Will rolled his eyes at the information. He had heard this sort of accusation many times before. Jealous exes looking for payback, greedy business partners trying to secure an extra grand. Will really didn’t have time for this. And he was surprised Jack would waste his “gift” on such trivial matters. However, he still had to see his job through,

 

“And why do you think this has anything to do with this particular case?”

 

“He's been saying very dark things and then saying, "just kidding!" A lot.”

 

Will scrunched his nose and interrupted derisively,

 

“We can’t arrest someone for having a poor sense of humor, sir.”

 

Mr Froideveaux shook his head, incessant tears tracking down his cheeks.

 

“Well it started to seem kind of crazy!”

 

“Psychopaths are not crazy,” Will and Dr Lecter supplied at the same time. Will saw the doctor’s lips twitch in a valiant attempt to hide his smile and he grinned. Yeah, probably a one-night stand. Or at least an encounter at a bar, maybe some groping.

 

“Tell Agent Graham what your friend does for a living, Franklyn.”

 

“He teaches cello to kids. Oh and he owns a string shop.”

 

“Sir, I really think that you, in your troubled state, linked your friend to this murder. There is no substantial proof here. I don’t know what Agent Crawford expects, but there’s nothing I can do with what you’ve given me.”

 

“I’m not imagining things!”

 

“But you want to imagine things,” Will smiled cruelly.

 

Dr Lecter eyed Will with a knowing look but did not intervene. Was that approval that Will sensed?

“What?”

 

Will took a deep breath and fixed the small man with what he hoped was a condescending look,

 

“Do you desire Tobias sexually, sir?”

 

“No! I—”

 

“Agent Graham, if I may be so blunt as to interrupt. I do think you are taking the wrong route here.”

 

“Oh? So your patient does not desire his friend sexually?” 

 

“That is irrelevant. Franklyn has what I believe is valuable information. Let him tell you how his friend has been talking lately. As I recall, he has been saying some rather dark but precise things.”

 

Both agents looked at Mr Froideveaux expectantly.

 

“Well, he said that he wanted to cut someone's throat and play it like a violin. And I saw on the news that you found somebody whose throat was cut and played like a violin. I told Dr Lecter about this conversation around a week before the murder happened.”

 

Will and Jack exchanged a worried look and asked Franklyn to leave his friend’s details with the assistant outside. Jack surprised Will by asking Dr Lecter to remain in the room.

 

“That’s a nervous man right there, doctor.”

 

“Our brain is designed to experience anxiety in short bursts, not the prolonged duress he things he has enjoyed.”  


 

“Well, in any case, thank you for coming to us with this.”

 

“Yes, Doctor, thank you,” Will added hastily. Something about the man was still familiar and commanded respect.

 

“You two haven’t had the chance to meet," Will did not miss the doctor's small smile, "As we will be working closely together in the future, I thought an introduction was in order.”

 

Will stared at the doctor’s shirt collar.

 

“Doctor Lecter was referred to me by Alana Bloom in the psychology department Georgetown. Well, you know Alana, Will.”

The doctor rose gracefully. Faced with his menacing height, the memories started to hit Will.

 

The younger agent nodded shortly and Dr Lecter watched him with growing curiosity as he began to remember. Glasses of scotch, rushed phone calls, a canceled appointment, harsh swats against his backside - shards of memories that made little sense.

 

“Most psychology departments are filled with personality deficients. Dr. Bloom would be the exception.”

 

“Yes, she would,” Jack agreed.

 

“Yes, she would,” Will echoed absently, willing his mind to remember more clearly.

 

“Dr Lecter mentored her during her residency at Johns Hopkins.”

 

Will sat up straight in his seat, suddenly recognizing the man, and flushing profusely. When Jack stared at him with thinly veiled concern, Will was quick to cover up his slip,

 

“You recently wrote a paper on the evolutionary origins of social exclusion.”

 

Hannibal eyed Will with raised eyebrows, clearly unimpressed, perhaps a little disappointed.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I found it was... spot on.”

 

“Thank you, Agent Graham.”

 

“I prefer your take on social exclusion than that of your “learned” colleague, Frederick Chilton. His latest article was rather tasteless,” Will said bitterly.

 

“Do you have trouble with taste?"

 

Will glared at Dr Lecter sternly; this was not a conversation he wanted to repeat, certainly not in front of Jack Crawford.

 

"My thoughts are often not tasty.”

 

“Nor mine.”

 

“No effective barriers?”

 

“I build forts.”

 

“Associations come quickly.”

 

“So do forts.”

 

Will could see the wheels turning in the doctor’s mind and decided to put an end to the questions by rudely turning to Jack.

 

“Jack?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

 

“Whose profile are you working on? Whose profile is he working on?”

 

“I'm sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

 

“Please, don't psychoanalyze me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed.”

 

Dr Lecter smiled at Will’s attempt at a menacing tone. Just as the young man was clearly about to announce his departure, Jack’s phone rang and he took it outside.

 

“It's an uncomfortable gift, Will.”

 

“Don’t get under my skin, doctor. You won’t like it when the monsters come out.”

 

“You are accustomed to scare people off with your ineptitude at socializing and that gift you think is a curse.

 

“You’re still doing it!”

 

“You do not scare me, Will. I am a bigger monster than you will ever encounter, and I know what your hostile attitude truly hides.”

 

“And I was hoping not all doctors were arrogant bastards.”

 

“It's an uncomfortable gift, Will. And a burden too heavy for you to bare alone with your frayed mind.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“How long shall we continue to pretend we do not know each other, my boy?”

 

“Doctor Lecter!”

 

“Boy?”

 

“Hannibal, no! It was once. I came to you after Alana mentioned you during coffee and I needed help. I was vulnerable after the Minnesota Shrike case, and needed clarity. You manipulated me!”

 

“I gave you what you asked for.”

 

“You crossed the line. My mind was boiling with encephalitis, you took an oath!”

 

“William.”

 

The stern tone forced Will to close his eyes, and he hated himself for letting this man that he had met only once before affect him so and, even worse, ground him.

 

“You came to my office, reeling from being rejected by Alana and having failed to save that girl whose father mounted her on antlers. You cried to me that the burden was too heavy and you never wanted to be in control in the first place. You asked me to take that control away, and I obliged.”

 

“Yeah, well I wasn’t counting on you obliging, Doctor. I thought I would repulse you.”

 

“You thought you might shock me but hoped you would spur me into giving you what you wanted. What you still want, I might add.”

 

Will covered his face with his hands and remained silent as Hannibal continued.

 

“You knew I prefer to remain in control in all aspects of my life, as Dr Bloom unwittingly informed you, and you ran to me hoping to find an anchor yet scared of what you wanted. Still scared, I’m disappointed to see.”

 

The man was, yet again, spot on, and his disappointment cut through Will. That was no reason to let him see how much he mattered.

“Ha, well sorry to disappoint.”   

 

“You ought to let me take care of you, William. I now what you need and want to give it to you. No longer would you feel burdened in my care, restrained by my hand, pinned down by my weight, aching for the bluntness of my—”

 

“Gentlemen! I apologize for leaving you so long. Another case.”

 

“Jack, I’m going home. I will not be working with him.”

 

“Will!” Jack asked, appalled at his rudeness.

 

“No!”

 

“William,” Hannibal tried.

 

In response, the door slammed shut.


	4. Wade into the quiet of the stream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The circumstances that led to Hannibal and Will's first meeting.  
> Setting the stage for their dom/sub relationship.

Will is boiling from the inside. He stomps on the accelerator and tries to ignore the clammy sweat dampening — no, wetting his face and neck. His ears whistle until he can no longer heat Agent Crawford’s scolding manipulations Look into her eyes, Graham! What would you do if this were your mother split open at the seams? Standing in a scruffy pair of jeans and his father’s jacket, Will had forced himself to see, had steeled his feet in the moss-green carpet and squared his shoulders, puffed his chest but no - he couldn’t look, he couldn’t retain his wholeness and know, truly know, a monster that would do such a thing. A monster that would politely knock on a housewife’s door and strike up a polite conversation, play the conservative new neighbor - the traditional family man who supposedly has a pregnant wife waiting for him three doors down… It was easy for him to graciously take a seat in the living room and accept the iced tea that the housewife offered him and nibble at one of the coffee cakes she placed in front of him. Well, Mrs. Bradely, these plates are lovely. Is that Limoges porcelain? From your honeymoon? Ah a wedding gift…Well, of course you registered; you were a studious bride. Lovely. Oh is this a small chip on the bottom here? And when she bends down slightly, with a worried expression wrinkling her middle-aged face, the monster would take hold of her mouth with her lips and lock his powerful arm around her neck and squeeze the consciousness out of her at the same time he bit her lips off.

 

No, Will could not, would not force this waking nightmare on himself, not when Mrs. Bradley had porcelain skin and dark chestnut hair. Not when everything from her dainty purpled fingers to the striking azure irises lying in a puddle of red next to her corpse reminded him of his mother, the last time he saw her. She, too, was in her late twenties, too pretty to be plain, too human and humane to die at the hands of such a monster.

 

Will is boiling from the inside, because Agent Crawford’s bellowed question reverberates within him and through his brain, down his neck, across his chest. What would you do if this were your mother split open at the seams? Will does not want to see, for the second time, the dark, jagged sloppy stitching that circumferenced what was left of Mrs. Bradley. And Will hopes that, at least, was done to her after she had passed. Having graduated top of his forensics class less than two years ago, Will realizes he should be able to tell from her corpse if that had indeed been the case. And Will would usually be quick to come to that answer, except he is swimming in despair, anger, and disgust, and they are all his own emotions. There is also sickly fear bubbling up his throat, but Will chooses to attribute it to Mrs Bradley. And guilt, hi very own, because Will reads monsters, he feels them to become them and at that moment, Will is deeply amused and aching for a cigarette and a piece of tissue to wipe himself down, because seeing Mrs. Bradley dying under his feet as he snorted down at her was the best pleasure he experienced so far. Until the next inviting and unsuspecting housewife. And then the next one…and…Will’s had snaps up so hard his neck flexes in pain and he feels al little dizzy. Graham? Do you have something for me? This isn’t the Louisiana police force, we actually enjoying closing our cases. Will grits his teeth as the rest of the criminal forensics team, most of them strangers to him, snickers at his expense and he remembers that one should always respect their superiors. His father had hammered that into his head, as had his teachers, his commanding officer at the force, the reverend at his Church. Bowing his head in deference he did not particularly want to owe Agent Crawford, Will spoke to his new boss, trying to dilute his Southern accent to avoid any more mockery,

 

“She isn’t his first, won’t be his last. He probably only targets housewives in the suburbs, most likely prefers the pretty ones, not old enough to look motherly, pretty enough to seem guilty to him. He bites his lips to punish them for lies he was told by a woman they have the misfortune of resembling. He will be a young man, early to mid twenties, attractive enough, in a position where he is bound to rise to power - try new partners at top law firms. This will have been his first visit to this neighborhood. He is married. To a pretty housewife. He’s from this part of town. That’s all I have.”

 

Will sighed in relief and headed to the door, eager to flee the scene that leaves him feel guilt-stricken for his cursed gift, but Agent Crawford’s wrist is quick to grab at his shoulder.

 

“Sir?”

 

“You can’t tell me how you did that?” 

 

 “No, sir.”

 

“Fine. I’ll check out suspect that fit the description you gave me and see. I’ll expect you at my office tomorrow. Eight sharp.”

 

“With all due respect, sir, you can’t predict there’ll be a murder tomorrow.”

 

“No, I don’t do the magic, Graham, you do. And there are dozens of open cases weighing on my conscience.”

 

“And you want me to —”

 

“Now they can weigh on your conscience too.”

 

Will gaped at the agent as he brushed passed him and starting barking orders at the rest of the team.

 

Will is boiling from the inside, and walking away from Agent Crawford out back towards his car, Will fumes and fists his hands. Because he had left the force to get away from the grisly consequences of his empathy. He had been sick of standing across a petty thief handcuffs dangling in his hands but standing aside all the same to allow the criminal to flee, because he could feel the hunger and need. He had been berated too many times to count by his commanding officers for opening parking on the highway and slamming open the back door of the police car for the wife-beater to walk out to freedom, because that bitch just had it coming and a hard-working man deserved to come home to a warm dinner, a clean house, and a quite wife. Will had left a job he thought he would love, and had moved away from home to escape his empathy. Agent Crawford had just confirmed one of his greatest fears. He could never escape it.

 

By the time Will reached his new shiny truck, sweat was trickling down his knees and his stomach felt hollow. He ached to be sick but there was nothing to retch out of hiss tired body. Struggling to unlock the driver’s door, Will collapsed onto the seat and closed his eyes. He swallowed three tylenols dry because Will knew he was not put-together enough to stock bottles of water in his truck. Which was a shame because there was a decent-sized cooler in the truck. Will reckons it’s the nicest thing he owns, after his grandfather’s watch; he had just bought it with most of the check the FBI cut him to lure him to Quantico. Initially, when Alana had arranged his interview with Kade Prurnell (read surprised him the morning they were supposed to have their bi-yearly brunch and forced him into this whole situation).

 

Will rubs his face with the palms of his hands and scratches his scalp and behind his ears. He is itching out of his skin and feels like he might be running a fever but is chilled all over. Absently, he considers that he needs switch to something stronger than tylenol because his headache is throbbing more pain through his skull despite the pills he took. He knows not to drive when he spots Agent Crawford rushing to his car and thinks he sees two of him. He needs to get his vision checked. Hell, get a general checkup; he’s been feeling worse over the past month but had blamed it on his recent move and on his demanding new job. As soon as the pain hit his eyes, Will threw his glasses on the passenger seat and used his hands to avoid the light. Out of instinct, he reached for his phone and dialed his ex-partner’s number from memory. Mike was your run-of-the-mill good cop. Will was never one to socialize with people but had felt at east with Mike who had always taken care of him from a distance but given him his space all the same. Will quickly deleted the number before keying in his father’s. That wouldn’t do, though. The old man was in a different state, probably fixing up some boat and chatting funny with his buddies. Will no longer wished to be a burden on the man, and they weren’t really close.

 

Will berated himself for not making any friends in Baltimore. He had no one to call for some help. Well, there was Alana, but Will was reluctant to go there. They had met at a conference that will had attended when he was a college freshman and she was a graduate student, and they had hit it off. If he had been one to deal with friends, he would consider Alana to be one. Will shook his head forcefully; he didn’t want to bother Alana with any of his mental incapabilities. He would much rather center their around the light conversations they had over brunch. The last time they went out was a little more than a month ago, shortly after he had moved to Virginia. Alana had had one too many mimosas while he was packing himself with his beer and she had let it slip that she had spent the previous evening sipping refined beer on the counter of a former crush. With bore the brunt of the conversation with slightly raised eyebrows and a slight twitch in his right eye. Hannibal, apparently a handsome man, had been her professor then her mentor before becoming her colleague and transforming into some sort of well-intentioned friend that brewed her beer and cooked for her once every few months. Perceiving how Will and becoming uncomfortable at the more personal topic of conversation, Alana had moved on to discussing Hannibal’s professional achievements. Will learned that the man was a trained cardiothoracic surgeon who had practiced for a little less than four years before switching to clinical psychiatry.  
In his truck, Will succumbed to the pain and aches of his unwilling minds and body and asked an operator to transfer him to Dr Hannibal Lecter’s office. He only realized he was calling after hours when a heavily-accented voice announced that he was Dr Lecter and what was this regarding. Will balked for a short moment before giving his name and stuttering that he was a friend of Alana Bloom’s and desperately needed help of both physiological and mental nature. The hum on the other side made Will’s throat constrict until the doctor asked him to describe his symptoms in as much detail as he was able.

 

“Mr Graham - William, I would usually advise you to call 911, but seeing as we have a dear friend in common and that you seem to need a particular kind of help, I will ask you to wait for the cab that I will call for you and come to my office immediately. As the fates would have it, a patient of mine cancelled and I am free for the night. I will be at the door to escort you in as my secretary has already left. Yes?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Will though he heard the other man chuckle.

 

“What is your favorite pastime?” 

 

“My pastime, sir? You mean like a hobby?”

 

“Indeed, I do.”

 

“I like to fish. Be-behind my grandpa’s house there was a stream and I usually go up there alone and just- well I enjoy the silence I guess.”

 

“Very good. When I ask you to do so, you will do as I say and I will hang up. You will then put your phone away. You will then make yourself comfortable in your - let me guess: truck? Yes, you will close your eyes and think about fishing. Now, William, put your head back, close your eyes and wade into the quiet of the stream.”

 

Will muttered a string of awkward thank you and sank into his seat with relief at having given control to someone else. A moment of rest through surrender, no matter how short, was always welcomed by Will, and he closed his eyes and did as he was told. Will waded into the quiet of the stream.


End file.
